


At Your Service

by betweentheheavesofstorm



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Canon Era, Feelings, Ficlet, Gun Violence, Heavy Angst, M/M, One Shot, Poor Aaron Burr, Zombie AU, based off a drawing for inktober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 03:37:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8271185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betweentheheavesofstorm/pseuds/betweentheheavesofstorm
Summary: An angsty oneshot based off an inktober drawing where the reason Burr shoots Hamilton is because he's turning into a zombie.(Self indulgent: check. Angst: check. Something that would make A.Dot.Ham turn in his grave: check)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yooo so I owe a lot of credit to [betweentheleadlines](http://betweentheleadlines.tumblr.com) (whose url is similar to my own) for the concept. You can see the relevant drawing[here](http://betweentheleadlines.tumblr.com/post/151444041653/day-6-of-thatsthat24-inktober-challenge-hamilton)

Burr hates every part of reconnaissance missions. The departure is terrible; leaving the one safe place there is and knowing that you may not come back. The nodding grimly to your family and friends and hoping that this isn’t the last time, and standing waiting for the gate to open and praying that when it does you won’t meet the undead on the other side.

The mission itself is equally awful. The horses are never fast enough and no matter how hard Burr stares at the horizon he never sees Washington’s troops. In their place are hordes of rotting farmers and their families – and sometimes a face you recognise and wish you could forget. The whole time he’s on a mission, Burr can never shake a horrible feeling that he’s prey.

Yet the part that’s easily the worst is coming back.

 

Today when he returns, he can tell almost at once that something is wrong. The face of the guard who checks him over is reserved and when he steps out into the main corridor it’s empty. The dread that’s been sitting in the pit of his stomach twists uncomfortably. There’s always someone to meet them, a friend or relative or anyone anxious for news. Their absence can only mean that they’re busy processing something else.

Steeling himself, Burr makes his way to the meeting hall. His own exhaustion is subsiding now that there are more pressing matters at hand.

Does it make him a terrible person to hope that the casualty isn’t anybody he knows? It’s a question he’s wondered time and time again and the only resolution he’s found is that it’s what everyone thinks. Grief is manageable when it’s someone else’s.

He steps through the hall doors and feels his stomach drop. It’s a sight he’s used to, everyone gathered around the long tables in family huddles, but it’s still a blow. And so painfully familiar: the hunched shoulders and tight expressions and worried glances at him as he passes.

One person sees him enter and rises. From their identity, Burr can immediately tell who is dead.

‘Good evening,’ James Madison says, quiet and polite. ‘Did you see anything?’

‘No.’ Burr casts one last look around the tables, hoping he’s wrong, and then glances back, disappointed. ‘Hamilton?’

Madison only needs to nod. It was obvious. Alexander Hamilton always greeted people returning from missions, no matter who they were. He wanted to know what they’d seen and what they knew. In the past he’d hounded an exhausted Burr for details. It was always infuriating. Everything Hamilton did was infuriating.

And now he will never do it again.

Burr looks over to where the Schuylers are sitting. Eliza has her head buried in Angelica’s shoulder, while the older woman stares straight ahead without seeing anything. On the other side of the table, Laurens is attempting to comfort Peggy.

Burr takes back what he’d thought about grief. Other people’s is no easier.

‘I should offer my condolences,’ he mutters. The rigidity of Angelica’s spine speaks as loudly as Eliza’s tears.

‘ _No,’_ Madison says, far too fast. ‘Do not do that.’

‘Why not? It’s what we do when – ’

‘He’s not dead,’ Madison says, in barely more than a whisper. Casting an anxious look around him, he takes Burr’s elbow and starts walking him back to the door.

‘Then why…?’ Perhaps it’s just a terrible injury. That is fine, it doesn’t matter what shape Hamilton’s in as long as he’s still breathing.

They reach the door and pass through it to the hallway outside.

‘Think about it,’ Madison says.

The answer comes to him after a second and throws him off balance. Quite literally: he has to reach out and steady himself against the wall. He’s surprised at himself, usually so solid and unmoving.

‘Oh, God.’ He’s an idiot not to have realised. How it could be worse, how it could be destroying.

‘Yes.’

‘Is he – is he here?’

Madison nods. ‘Contained and secure.’

They’re such sterile, toneless words it’s hard to imagine how they could ever describe Hamilton. It doesn’t matter. Everything Burr has taken to be true may as well crumble now, it would make the same amount of sense.

‘He has requested to see you,’ Madison adds, ‘but I thought you would want to rest first.’ His eyes flicker over Burr’s uniform, the flecks of mud on his trousers and the pistol that’s still in his belt.

‘No.’ Burr makes up his mind. ‘I’ll see him.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

Madison doesn’t need further urging. They walk down the hallway, Burr half a stride behind so that they aren’t in step.

‘This is the first time it’s happened to such a senior officer,’ Madison says quietly, when they reach the stairs. ‘His fate is between you, Jefferson and I.’

‘What is there to decide?’ Burr winces at the harshness of his own words. ‘I mean to say, there is a protocol.’

He’s only technically right, but Madison doesn’t contradict him. Even though nothing has happened that they hadn’t known was possible, it’s still nothing that they’d truly anticipated. Burr has been afraid for himself, for Theodosia – even for Madison. It’s very possible that Hamilton’s the one person he _hasn’t_ been concerned about. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t know how to react now.

Neither of them say anything else on the way down. The cells are underground. Unlike the rest of the house, they were built specifically for this war. They aren’t used often and never for very long.

They reach the last flight of stairs before Burr’s ready. Madison walks to the closest cell and pauses by the door. It was the first one to be built and still the largest. Like the others, it has a line of thick iron bars running down the centre of the room from floor to ceiling. There are two doors, one for each side. In the early days, when there was hope for a medical explanation, this room was designed to allow a doctor to study a subject.

Burr hesitates before entering. ‘Thank you,’ he says to Madison, dismissing him with a nod.

‘There’s no hurry,’ Madison reminds him. ‘Rest afterwards and tomorrow we shall talk it over.’ He claps a hand to Burr’s arm in a brotherly gesture and departs. It’s the most affection he’s ever shown.

Left alone with no way to stall, Burr enters the cell. On his side of the bars there is a desk and a single chair. Seated on an identical chair on the other side is Alexander Hamilton.

This is the worst Burr’s ever seen him. His hair, normally so clean and glossy, hangs in knots around his face and his uniform is torn and heavily stained with his own blood. His whole posture – crouched over, his hands holding his face – is so unfamiliar it takes Burr a moment to recognise it as despair.

‘You asked for me,’ he says. It’s another part of this mess that doesn’t add up. He could imagine Hamilton wanting to say goodbye to Eliza, perhaps talk philosophy with Angelica, but why would he want to see _Burr_ at this time?

‘Yes.’ Hamilton’s head jerks up and Burr sucks in a breath. He’d been preparing himself to see the beginnings of a monster or some terrible injury. He’d seen infected people covered in gashes they’d ceased to feel, having lost their eyes, their ears, their noses.

Hamilton’s face is – well, normal. Exhausted, certainly; weariness is carved into every line and shadow of his countenance. But that was nothing new, he was always working himself to the point of collapse.

Burr sinks into the chair, disarmed. Now that it is truly Hamilton he is seeing, he doesn’t know how to proceed. He’d been expecting a creature vicious and unrecognizable, not the man he’d known and been friends with, once upon a time.

‘Why me?’

‘I couldn’t very well converse with Jefferson,’ Hamilton says, with a touch of his old spark. ‘I’d never know if my desire to kill him was my own, or…’

‘Have you spoken to your wife?’

Hamilton nods. ‘As soon as I could, safely. I do not wish to see her again. I – this – will only worsen.’

Burr’s mouth is very dry. ‘When did it happen?’

‘Last night.’

‘So you have – ’

‘Three days,’ Hamilton interrupts. ‘I know.’

‘Was anyone else bitten?’ They’ve fallen into a strange conversational space where the questions feel ordinary. They might as well be discussing law or politics.

He shakes his head. ‘Only me. How was your mission?’

There it is, the question Hamilton’s asked so many times. Never did Burr think he’d feel any sentimental attachment to it. ‘Fine. Nothing out of the ordinary.’

‘I’m sorry. You must be tired.’ This might be the only time Hamilton has ever apologised for being a disturbance.

‘This could not wait.’ _And there will be time to rest_ , he thinks. He has the luxury of years; Hamilton does not have that.

‘Do you know what Jefferson intends?’

‘I haven’t seen him. Madison requested I speak with them tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow. I suppose they mean to be kind by giving me time.’

‘They’re panicking.’ Burr hesitates before adding, ‘We’ve never run this place without you.’

‘You will.’ The certainty in Hamilton’s voice is heartwrenching. ‘There is only one thing that can happen.’

‘Very practical. Have you come to terms with it so quickly?’

‘The entirety of last night did not feel quick. I admit, I do not want to die.’ Hamilton looks down. ‘And it would also be so much easier if I were dead already.’

‘You would not be the first to say that.’ An idea strikes. ‘And, you know, there is no need for you to die at all.’

‘Have you some miracle cure?’

‘I mean that these cells are secure and rarely used.’

‘A nice idea, but an idea is all it is. I’m not that much of a coward.’

 _And I am? Because I suggested it._ The words hang in the air. Burr has never realized the extent to which he needs the other man to live.

‘How is Eliza?’

‘I only saw her from a distance. She’s upset, as I’m sure you can imagine.’

‘I have never deserved to marry her, much less to break her heart.’ For a moment, Hamilton seems to be somewhere else. Then he returns his gaze to Burr. ‘You’ll protect her, won’t you?’

‘Of course. And her sisters. Not that I believe Angelica requires much protection.’

At that, Hamilton smiles. It’s a good thing to see.

‘I was so happy when this war began. Do you remember?’

‘Vividly.’ Young Hamilton is impossible to forget. He’d barreled his way into Burr’s life and demanded a place there.

‘I thought it was the answer to everything. It would elevate me, elevate _us_ , and at the end we would have somewhere to go home to. The triumph of the superior over the weak.’ He laughs, bitterly. ‘I understand your frustration with me now.’

‘I’ve been frustrated with you many times,’ Burr says, hoping to steer the conversation into safer waters. ‘Not least because you insisted on working during the night.’

‘I had more to say than I could express in daylight hours.’

‘You always do.’

‘And you question why it is I asked for you,’ Hamilton says. ‘It is because you know me. I’m sure there have been times when you wished you did not. I cannot lie to you.’ He takes a breath. ‘So I must come to the crux of the matter, the subject we have only skirted without confronting. I have a favour to ask of you and I promise it will be the last time I am unfair.’

‘Go on,’ Burr responds, cautious.

‘You had the foresight to bring your pistol. I ask that you use it.’

‘No.’ Burr goes cold. ‘You cannot mean that.’

Hamilton sighs. ‘Come here, if you trust me.’

‘I don’t, but I will.’ Burr gets up and approaches the bars. Were this an ordinary prison, he couldn’t predict who would be the one incarcerated. In a moment of spontaneity, he extends one hand in a friendly gesture. Hamilton, moved by the same strange influence, clasps it in his own.

‘Am I cold, Aaron?’

‘No more than usual.’ Burr manages a smile. ‘You always had terrible circulation.’

‘I maintain that the rooms were draughty. No doubt Jefferson wished me to catch cold so I could not challenge his proposals.’ Hamilton softens. ‘What do you say to my request?’

‘I cannot do it.’

‘You must. I ask you because I have to. Who else is there? I could never allow Jefferson the satisfaction of killing me.’

Coming so close was a mistake. Now that he can see Hamilton’s eyes, deep and pained and for now still human, Burr can’t resist.

‘How do I live with myself?’ he asks. They’ve swapped positions; he’s the one who’s begging. ‘How do I do that?’

‘You will have to find out. If you recall, I did say it was unfair.’

Burr looks at him, taking in everything again. There’s so much blood on Hamilton’s jacket that he can’t have any left in his veins. Not that he needs it. He’s still human now, but Burr’s seen the transition happen before. The light will fade from his eyes and the grace from his movements. In three days the thing in this cell won’t bear any resemblance to the man he was.

‘I’ll do it,’ Burr says.

Hamilton relaxes every part of his body apart from his hand, with which he clasps Burr’s tighter. Something passes between them. Burr couldn’t put a name to it, only note that it brings him a fresh ache. That there will be a world without Alexander Hamilton is already more than he can comprehend; that he will be the one to make it so is more than he can bear.

‘Thank you,’ Hamilton murmurs, breaking the spell. He looks down at their entwined hands and after a moment withdraws his. There is no evidence to suggest that the infection can be passed by contact, and yet even if it could be it might have been worth it.

Abruptly businesslike, Hamilton steps back. Burr mirrors him, pulling the pistol from its holster. He has grown fond of the weapon, his defence against the world. What he is doing now will surely guarantee his losing it.

He plants his feet and takes careful aim. One shot is all it will take – all it must take. Hamilton has entrusted him with this.

For a second he wavers. Perhaps if he imagines the man opposite is one of the undead already he will be able to do it. He tries to conjure that image in his mind but it slips away and is lost.

No, the only way is to remember Hamilton’s argument. The man is going to die whatever Burr does, if he complies now he allows him some dignity. If their positions were reversed, would Burr not wish for the same?

Across the cell, their eyes meet. Hamilton nods. Burr fires.

Sometime between the bullet leaving the gun and its hitting Hamilton, Burr becomes aware of something. There are feelings within him that he pays no attention to, momentary insanities where he forgets himself. In a way he has always known them and merely avoided any head-on confrontation, and yet they are also new and carry with them the glaring temptations of the undiscovered. It is unsurprising that Hamilton, who was always dragging Burr into the unfamiliar (and often unpleasant), should be the one to spark the fuse.

Then Hamilton collapses, struck down in the way he’d desired, and Burr has no time to ask if those sensations had come from or been shared by him. Hamilton is silent and will always be silent and Burr doesn’t know if he wants to hear the world without him.

He drops the pistol and runs, in a kind of frenzy, out of that room and into the other half. There is no blood on the floor: the wound in Hamilton’s head is clean to the point of surgical. Burr stoops, touching the hand that had held his only moments ago. It had been cold then too, but the strength of Hamilton’s grip had animated it.

Burr stares at Hamilton and wonders if he will regret loving him.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've read anything else by me, you can see my fondness for certain themes. Like zombies and unnecessary angst.
> 
> I'm actually trying to take a hiatus from fic writing to focus on some original stuff (will it last? who knows) so I'll probably be less active here than I have been. If you want to see what I'm up to or want to chat about Hamilton or Les Mis, come visit me on [Tumblr](http://betweentheheavesofstorm.tumblr.com)


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